A THRUSH and his fez are seldom parted
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon and Illya again find themselves on a mission to steal THRUSH's Triad Codes, and as always seems to be the case, the mission becomes much more complicated than they expected. Nigerian revolutionaries, Russians and of course T.H.R.U.S.H. all complicate matters. pre-saga
1. Illya and his hunger pangs

Warri Nigeria. The streets crowded with people, some dressed in traditional garb, others wearing modern clothing, but standing out among them were the soldiers of Nzeogwu, the leader of the corrupt military coup that had recently taken over the country. Dressed in their green uniforms, carrying their Russian Kalashnikov rifles and machine guns; they patrolled the streets ensuring their presence was clear to all.

Napoleon Solo waited in the shadowy alcove to a doorway of one of the simple whitewashed houses that lined the street; trying to stay out of view, but that was really impossible as he was, at the moment, the only white man among the sea of native and Arabic faces.

This place was the gun-running capital of western Africa. Even with the patrolling troops he had no doubt that nearly everyone who passed by was armed with a firearm of some sort. The place was a powder keg waiting to explode, yet that wasn't the focus of he and his partner's mission.

A hooded figure approached him from the crowds, wearing a muted homespun robe with his head bowed, the long billowing sleeves hiding his hands tucked within them.

"Here," the familiar voice whispered. "Put this on quickly"

"You're five minutes late, I was beginning to get worried about you."

A pair of blue eye peaked out at him from beneath the hood, as it was lowered for a moment, revealing a faded knit skull-cap covering the Russian's blond hair.

Illya ignored the remark about being late. "I was getting worried about me as well. It took awhile to evade our feathered friends, but they will not be hard to spot if they show up again as they still insist on sporting those red fezzes."

"Where did you get this thing?" Napoleon asked as he donned his striped robe; crinkling his nose at the smell when pulling it over his head.

"The camel-jockey I paid it for seemed happy enough with it."

"Enough to part with it." Solo sniffed it again." I hate camels."

"As do I. And yes, since you have not asked... I was able to photograph the new triad codes. It amazes me T.H.R.U.S.H. would still keep something so vital in a simple tumbler floor safe. They never learn."

"They may be evil, but no one ever said they were smart, if you recall their behavior the last time you pinched codes from them?" Napoleon smiled as he and his partner disappeared into the crowds, strolling past the armed soldiers, thankfully, without being noticed.

"Yes, how could I forget my stay with the Foreign Legion. You know I still have scars from Barbara's bite marks... speaking of which, I wonder if she ever really did get married?" *

Napoleon chuckled, " Hope the fellow had real thick skin."

Illya rubbed his arm absent mindedly as he recalled the painful nips the French woman gave him, simply because she was nervous. He hated to think what she would have done if she were really frightened.

"I suppose as long as she did not get jittery, her poor husband would be safe. I did hear from Corporal Remy... Basil Calhoun and his Cuisle were finally joined in wedded bliss." The Russian suddenly raised his nose, sniffing the air. "Mmmm, I am hungry. Might we stop and get some roasted goat kababs?"

"Don't you ever stop thinking about food?" Napoleon's eyes were darting in every direction, as were his partners; though Illya's stomach was craving food, his and Solo's instincts still kept them on-guard against trouble.

"I will make you a deal, I will stop thinking about food, when you stop thinking about women," the Russian snickered.

Napoleon gaze could only be described as one akin to shock, but he answered the challenge very succinctly.

"To paraphrase something that was said to me during the 'Foreign Legion Affair...'I not only like to enjoy the feast, I like to take home the dishes, and that my dear fellow, I will continue to do."

No surprise to the Russian there, but now his eyes gave away a mildly pained look as the mouth-watering smell of roasting meat became stronger.

Napoleon looked at Illya not unsympathetically; unable to deny the man his passion, and seeing as how they had evaded the T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives, the American relented, succumbing to the rumblings of his partner's stomach, as always.

"There's a food bazaar straight ahead, " Napoleon quickly pointed, and swatting a large fly away from his face. Though they were in a small city, the streets were dusty and full of camels and cattle that attracted such things. He forced himself not to be distracted and remained vigilant for any red fezzes in the crowd as they moved toward the marketplace.

Filled with sights, sounds and smells emanating from at least thirty stalls with people selling their wares; Illya's nose led him to the repast he craved.

* ref. "The Foreign Legion Affair" Season 2 Episode 22


	2. Chyort

As the agents entered the market, the place became even more crowded, offering them less view of anyone approaching, yet at the same time the congestion gave them some cover.

The place was filled with umbrella and lean-to covered stands; merchants selling their wares piled in crates and woven baskets, everything from animals, fruit, clothing, trinkets and most importantly to the Russian, roasting meat.

They stepped up to a woman selling the goat meat kababs, using a half a beat up oil drum as her grill. She'd filled it with stones to help maintain the heat from the burning wood.

Illya held up two fingers, and coin to the woman, and was handed two skewers, one for himself the other for his partner.

_"Seun,_" he said, thanking her.

Napoleon crinkled his nose for a second time, looking at the shish kabab and how it had been prepared, but changed his mind when he found the aroma surprisingly enticing as the meat was cooked with bits of onions...his favorite garnish, next to ketchup. He bit into it and nodded his approval, pleasantly surprised that it tasted a bit like lamb but with a little spice to it.

"Not bad, chum. Hey, I didn't know you spoke Nigerian."

"Not Nigerian. I said thank you in Yoruba, one of their main dialects. Unfortunately I know only a few words and am lacking in fluency, something I need to remedy." Illya dug into his feast with the enthusiasm of a starving man.

"You're kidding, a language you actually don't speak? My heart be still." Solo grabbed his chest, mocking the moment.

His partner ignored his joke."Yes, there are a fair few that I have yet still to master." Illya had his kabab half gone and was contemplating a second when he spotted them, the tell-tale red fezzes.

"Awww, we have company," pointed out with a nod of his head as he swallowed the last piece of meat from the skewer.

They walked from the stand, trying not to draw attention to themselves, but it was no use as the Thrushmen had spotted them and were already moving their way.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents took off, shoving their way through the market, and in the process knocked over a few people with their wares careening in different directions. There were curses uttered and shaking fists as the two robed men were chased by four men with red fezzes.

That caught the attention of the soldiers who in turn took off behind the fez-wearing men, and it became a free-for-all as they all ran out from the bazaar to one of the narrow streets adjoining it.

'Split up!" Napoleon called, watching his partner instantly pivot, going left as he went right.

The Thrush operatives went straight after Illya, no surprise there, but the soldiers went after Solo. He ran, making turn after turn as the streets became narrow alleys where one could barely see the sky above, until finally his luck ran out as he hit a dead end.

Napoleon stopped, raising his hands above his head as he heard the sounds of weapons being cocked behind him, and he turned slowly to face them.

"Excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to know where there's a men's room, I've been running around trying to find one and haven't had a bit of success," he shrugged his shoulders, trying to look blissfully innocent.

Solo's demeanor and question were to no avail as a rifle butt came down on his head, knocking him out cold.

.

Illya dodged through a small alleyway, hoping his four pursuers had missed it and as he kept moving forward, he realized he'd run right into dead end. Looking around quickly, there was nothing there to offer him any coverage. Some large potted plants, lines of laundry, a few awning-covered doors to private homes, but there was simply nowhere to hide.

The red-fezzed men tore around the corner, guessing the Russian had gone there but as they reached the end of the alleyway they found it empty.

They pounded on the doors, opened by some very angry husbands, being protective of their wives and homes as they yelled out in Arabic at the men for their insolence.

"Curse that son of a dog. He got away from us again,"Hassan el-Hazziz barked as he and his men left the alley. "If Central gets word of this, we are dead men for certain. This is the second time that accursed Kuryakin has stolen the Triad Codes."

Their voices trailed off and when everything became silent, with only the muffled echoes of city life filling the air, Illya Kuryakin rolled out from atop of one of the awnings, landing softly on his feet like a cat. He grabbed a grey robe from the laundry line, leaving his... a much better quality robe in trade, then pulling up the hood, he verified the fezzes had gone, allowing him to disappear to the narrow city streets.

He stepped into the shadows after doubling back, pulling out his communicator.

"Channel F," he whispered. "Napoleon?" No answer. That could mean one of two things, his partner was still on the run and couldn't respond or he was in trouble. Illya activated a homing device, locking in on the communicator's transponder. Thankfully it was still active. There was a fairly strong signal, and the Russian hoped Napoleon and his communicator had not been separated.

Kuryakin moved quickly, slipping in and out among the pedestrians on the streets, arriving back at the bazaar just in time to see the limp form of his partner being lifted by soldeirs into the back of a canvas covered deuce and a half military truck.

_"Chyort_…" Illya whispered a curse under his breath.


	3. The ball is in his court

Illya swore under his breath as he watched the truck drive off, stirring up a trail of dust as the wheels turned. He hadn't a clue where it could be heading, but noted there were other men in the back of the lorry, dark-faced men he assumed were prisoners as well. That was a reminder there was a military coup still underway here..

Turning to a vendor in his stand, one of many lining the street; Illya reckoned to try his hand at a sort of pidgin English he knew was spoken locally. With his limited knowledge of Yoruba, it was the best he could manage.

"Wetin dey happen for here_what is going on here?" The Russian asked, pointing to the truck.

"Put leg for road," the shopkeeper pointed, "but no put me for trouble. Go way."

Illya shrugged his shoulders, raising his hands in the universal 'I don't understand' gesture, though he knew exactly what the man had said; his hope in feigning ignorance would keep the limited conversation going.

"Camp for de prisoners. No one come back dere. Now go way!" The vendor shook a staff at the agent, warding him off.

"I de comot_ I am leaving. Ose mo dupe. Ose mo dupe_thank you, I thank you," he answered in Yoruba as he cautiously backed away. Illya walked off behind the stalls, hiding in a doorway as he tried to stay out of view as he again pulled out his communicator.

"Overseas relay Channel D," he spoke quietly.

"Mr. Kuryakin, your status please." Alexander Waverly responded.

"I have the Triad Codes sir, but we ran into a bit of trouble with the local military police. We were being pursued by T.H.R.U.S.H. agents, who in turn brought attention to themselves and a military patrol gave pursuit. Mr. Solo and I split up, I lost the Thrush, but the last I just saw of Mr. Solo; he was unconscious and being loaded on a truck by soldiers. I was told it was going to a prison camp."

He could hear the Old Man sigh. "Very well Mr. Kuryakin. I will give you a window of opportunity to locate Mr. Solo, but if you haven't found him within the next 48 hours, you are to return with the codes, am I clear?"

"Yes sir," he answered begrudgingly.

Waverly's instructions were an obvious side step. Procedurally, a captured agent was secondary to the mission, and their expendability was a given. However, Waverly knew the bond between Solo and Kuryakin, and the Russian would seek to rescue his partner inspite of procedure against it. It was better to keep the Russian under control and give him a time frame in which to find his partner.

The CCO harrumphed his displeasure."This was a simple assignment Mr. Kuryakin, I do not understand at times how you and Mr. Solo manage to complicate things."

"Neither do I sir." The discomfort was evident in the agents voice.

"In the meantime young man, try to stay out of trouble as those codes are quite important to us."

"I will do my best."

"Stay on the channel, I'll put you through to section IV."

"Intelligence," a female voice answered."Hi Illya...I mean Mr. Kuryakin, how may we be of assistance," It was Sandra, one of the few people working in the Intelligence section he'd asked out to dinner, though it was strictly casual as she enjoyed listening to jazz.

"I need information on a possible political prisoner camp located near the city of Warri in Nigeria."

"One moment Illya..." He could hear the computers running feverishly in the background.

Moments later his reply arrived.

"There's only one in that vicinity, approximately 12 miles southeast of the city, getting closer to the Gulf of Guinea...take the, no wait. Sorry Illya there's no road names that I can give you. It looks pretty desolate...be careful. Lots of jungle and desert combined."

"Thank you and I will Sandra, Kuryakin out."

There was nothing for it but to head in the direction he'd been told. He feared luxury of the 48 hours the Old Man had given him would not be enough, knowing in the past how rescues tended to sometimes take an inordinate amount of time.

These government camps were notorious for their wanton abuse and murder of their prisoners and he only hoped he could get to Napoleon in time to safely extricate him.

His first priority was to take care of the codes, and he needed to get them to a safe place. Illya travelled across the city on foot, to the only Consulate located there, the British one.

Showing his U.N.C.L.E. identification; he was granted admittance, and with the help of the Ambassador was able to include the codes in a diplomatic pouch to be sent to UNCLE headquarters in London. With the documents safely out of the reach of T.H.R.U.S.H. he could concentrate on his partner, though knowing the risk that both of them could die anyway. At least the mission would be fulfilled, regardless of whether they lived or died.

He decided it best not to communicate the method of transport for the codes, just in the event T.H.R.U.S.H. was somehow monitoring local transmissions here.

"Just so you know Mr. Kuryakin," the Ambassador spoke with a strong but cultured British accent," we have a man on the inside of that prisoner camp." He pulled out a map, given the Russian more detailed directions in which to find it.

"And your man on the inside?"

"Has just recently arrived; at present we are maintaining radio silence for his safety. I'm sure he'll spot your friend and will make a judgement call about what to do for him."

"So might you give me your operative's name, or his designation...it's not 00…"

"No, it's not him, and I will not risk our man being exposed. The ball as the Yanks say, is in his court. Now you look rather parched, young man...perhaps a spot of tea?"

"No thank you sir, water will suffice. If you could outfit me with some basic supplies, and perhaps a mode of transportation….U.N.C.L.E. would be ever so grateful, as would I.

After drinking down several glasses of water, Illya was given a canteen, food supplies to last several days, as well as a nice little cache of C4. They also provided a motorbike with a full tank of petrol.

"Godspeed." He was told as he left the embassy, heading off in search of Napoleon. His visit to the Consulate, though necessary, had cost him valuable time in getting to his partner.


	4. Oh boy

Napoleon regained consciousness face down in what he quickly realized was the back of a truck; he rolled over to his back as the jostling continued to jar him back to his senses. His head was pounding, and as he put his hand to his scalp, it came away covered in blood.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath as he began to feel dizzy.

"Nothing like a head wound to make a mess," he thought, looking at the armed guards sitting in the rear of the truck, blocking his escape. "Escape," he thought,"not going to happen with the way he felt right now."

A dark hand appeared in front of his face, one of the other prisoners offering to help him up to the bench where they were seated.

"Thank you," Solo whispered as he sat beside the man," and you are?"

"Akinjide, Doctor Omiyale Akinjide. And what are you called my friend?" He spoke in English with a clipped accent.

"Napoleon Solo."

"Ah a very powerful and auspicious name that is Napoleon," Akinjide nodded his approval.

"Tell me Doctor, do you have any idea where we're headed?"

"Why yes. Sadly we are being taken to the prison camp near Warri. I have been commandeered to treat the soldiers, and hopefully the internees as well." He leaned closer, whispering this time. "I have heard they are not treated well. Speaking of which, that is a nasty gash you have on your head, you should let me tend to it."

The doctor turned to the guards, asking permission in Yoruba to treat the American. The men laughed their reply, waving their approval, seemingly unconcerned as they puffed away on their cigarettes.

The doctor opened his black medical bag, showing the guards what he was removing, just some gauze and antiseptic.

Solo winced as Akinjide dabbed his scalp, wiping the blood away as he examined the wound.

"You are lucky sir, it is not deep. Head wounds have a way of bleeding more and therefore look worse than they actually are." He took hold of the Americans chin, turning Napoleon's face and examining a darkening bruise that was forming on his cheek. There was nothing he could do about that.

"Tell me about it, "Napoleon mumbled. "Not the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last."

The doctor, oddly enough, did not react to what the American said.

What seemed like ages later, the lorry pulled through the gate to the prison camp, coming to a stop in front of a simple whitewashed building. The occupants of the back of the truck were shoved out one by one, rifles aimed at them as they were each stripped of whatever bits of clothing the guards fancied.

Napoleon wasn't sad to see the striped robe his partner had gotten him go but when his khaki shirt was being eyed, he protested. Someone barked an order to the guard just as he was about to hit Solo, and instead of the American's jacket being taken, he and the other prisoners were made to stand in the blazing African sun while their ankles were shackled.

Napoleon protested again, politely this time. "Look... I'm sorry but there seems to be some sort of mistake. If I could just have my ID back, I could show you who I am.

His papers indicated he was an American businessman, there to import equipment for drilling water and creating wells around Warri.

A rifle butt slammed into his stomach this time, doubling him over with a grunt. Solo straightened himself up slowly, scanning the camp and seeing hundreds of poorly dressed and half starved prisoners. There were a few white faces among them, gathered together, hiding in the shade beside one of the many crude huts erected within the barbed wire fencing.

Uniformed guards stood in the towers while some patrolled the perimeter of the camp. There were other men there, and he spotted a red fez on one of them waiting by the main building.

Napoleon clicked his tongue with an annoyed, 'Tsk," realizing he might be in for more trouble than he imagined. His mind drifted to thoughts of Illya but they were disturbed as he and the doctor were pushed inside the building and hoped his partner would help get him out of this hell hole, and fast.

The prisoners were made to stand at attention in front of the camp commandant's metal desk two at a time; the man standing with his back to them once they were settled in place.

"Doctor Akinjide, welcome to my camp," a dark, oily skinned man smiled; he spoke heavily accented English as he sat down behind the desk. His face was pock-marked with scars, possibly from acne or just bad hygiene and there was a large and distinctive gap between his front teeth. His ill-fitting uniform was tight, covering his rather rotund form.

"This is not a welcome. Am I to be held a prisoner here? And why am I chained thusly?" The doctor spoke up boldly.

"Let's say you need to be here for an indeterminate length of time. My troops need medical attention and I can't have you running off."

"And what about the prisoners." Napoleon piped in, eyeing the man wearing the red fez as he walked into the room, followed by one of his compatriots...this one sporting a heavy moustache.

"Ah yes Mr. Solamente." The Commendant said holding up Napoleon's documents. "Or should I say Mr. Solo. I also welcome you but you are here for a different reason are you not?" He flashed a wide grin. "My friends Mr. Bukhari and Mr. Hazzizz want to know what you have done with the items you and your partner stole from him."

Napoleon feigned ignorance, flashing an innocent, wide eyed gaze. "Sir...I'm sorry we haven't been introduced, but you're mistaken. My name is Anthony Solamente and I work for an Italian company here to deliver equipment for building water wells in this area."

"Oh so kind of you to remind me. " I am General Akingbade, a name you will learn to fear." He backhanded Napoleon across the mouth. "Don't lie to me, I know who you are, U.N.C.L.E. agent. A little bird told me the truth. "

Solo spat blood from his mouth, as he looked the General in the eyes. "But..."

"Close your mouth, prisoner!" Akingbade bellowed."I am told that you are the best in your organization...let us see how long you last here." He snapped his fingers and a tall blond, pale-skinned man entered the room, dressed in different military fatigues, Russian ones.

"Take him to building number three and tell your Colonel Zakhrov to soften him up a bit, but remind him not damage my goods too much, I want him kept alive," he sneered at the Russian, before returning his attention to the American.

"You'll tell us Solo where the codes are, if not, then others will suffer for your silence. Perhaps when we find that partner of yours, he will pay the price, or he might be the one to talk? A man would be willing to give up his mother after Zakhrov finishes with him."


	5. Illya's dilemma

The Russian soldier, accompanied by two other guards dragged a struggling Solo from the room and past the red-fezzed Thrushmen, with the General bellowing a deep laugh as the worn sliding doors were closed behind them.

"I must remember to get those doors repainted," the General said with a cavalier attitude, completely dismissing the fact he had just sent the American to be tortured by Colonel Zakrov.

One of the T.H.R.U.S.H. spoke up, ignoring Akinbade's inconsequential comment.

"These agents are conditioned to resist even under the most extreme torture," Hakan Bukhari said. "If he does not cooperate, I still want him to suffer greatly, but kept alive. Napoleon Solo is a valuable commodity to my organization and Central will want him...intact. "Sneering, the man added an enticement. "We will pay, of course, for your assistance in this matter.

"I have no doubt of that," General Akingbade smiled,

"My people are searching for that partner of his...he's the one I want," Hazzizz said. "He caused me trouble with our codes once before and I want him to pay dearly for it. Him, T.H.R.U.S.H. wants too, but I think they will just have to make do with Solo. I want Kuryakin dead once we get the location of the codes from either him or his partner."

"I will add extra men to the search." The General looked at the photograph of Illya that Bukhari had passed to him.

This man does not appear very formidable, and you say he is also one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best?"

"Appearances can be deceiving. Kuryakin is most cunning, clever and stronger than he looks. The little runt is considered a traitor to the Soviet Union by their KGB,"Hazzizz added with a smile.

"A Russian? Now that is interesting." Akingbade mused, thinking ahead to what Zakhrov might do once he got his hands on this turncoat.

.

As Illya neared his destination the landscape changed dramatically. There were more trees, and the distinctive smell of salt water was in the air the closer he got to the coast. He hid the motorbike in some dense brush nearly a half mile away from the camp, continuing his trek on foot. He was a bit nervous, trying to sublimate the worry that Napoleon might be dead, but knowing how brutal these camps could be, he couldn't help his concern.

No firing squads here though, beheading was the method of choice in this part of the world. Other than him rescuing Napoleon, there was nothing else that could be done. There were no diplomatic channels for U.N.C.L.E. agents, even if Solo's cover identity remained intact; both he and Waverly knew that.

Every agent was expendable, but Illya would be damned if he was going to lose his partner to these monsters. It was a fifty-fifty chance he was alive, but the more time passed the more the odds of Napoleon being alive diminished.

Time, was a commodity that he and his partner did not have and Illya hoped for once that near mythical Solo luck was still intact.

He pulled up his hood to protect his skin from the blazing sun, as well as to hide his fair appearance. If he kept himself covered, he would hopefully be taken for someone of middle Eastern extraction and not draw attention to himself if he ran into anyone along the way.

Once the camp was in sight he hid himself in the brush, pulling out a pair of mini-binoculars and scanning a sea of dark faces for his partner.

There were no white prisoners that he could discern, yet he saw people from all over the country in there.

Nigeria was the most populated country in Africa with over two hundred different tribal groups, the northern Nigerian Fulani population were narrower in stature with finer asymmetrical facial features similar to that found in the Horn of Africa, the western Nigerians appearing slightly thicker and southern Nigerians having a mixture of both Northern and Western characteristics.

He noted there were some Ethiopians as well, who looked somewhat ostracized from the others. Despite the physical differences between Nigerians, they generally did not show bias as to what Nigerians looked like so why, he wondered, was there such bias towards the Ethiopians of the South? He'd heard that and now was seeing it.

As he continued to scan the compound, there was no sign of the his partner...then he spotted something that made his heart sink; a tall blond dressed in a Russian military uniform, followed by another half dozen of his fellow soldiers. They all disappeared into a cinder block building. Minutes later, he spotted a red fez, worn by a familiar moustachioed Thrushman, taking the same path as the soldiers.

"That explains where the Kalashnikovs came from," he mumbled. Illya's gut instincts told him that building to where they were going was most likely where his partner was being held.

With the Thrush agents presence, that actually gave him hope Napoleon was indeed among the living. They knew Solo's partner had stolen their triad codes. No doubt they would be questioning the senior agent as to his and the codes whereabouts.

Illya felt a pang of guilt as his deed was most likely causing his friend to suffer. From past experience, interrogation without some sort of violence or torture was highly unlikely...

Though the presence of the fezzes might stay Napoleon's death; matters had now become even more complicated as they most likely had their fingers in the pot with this new government. Witnessing Soviet complicity with the rebels was even more troubling. Engaging them could spark an international incident. No doubt the United Nations would be very interested in knowing of Soviet Union's involvement with the Nigerian rebels.

He drew his communicator, fitting it together as he lowered the binoculars. "Channel D- overseas relay, priority."

"Mr. Kuryakin, what have you to report?"

"No sign of Mr. Solo as of yet. I am near the camp where I believe he was taken and have discovered something rather disturbing. The rebels are receiving direct help from the Soviet Union, and not just weapon supplies. I have spotted a number of Russian soldiers in the camp. Perhaps they are giving the rebels weapons training and acting in the role of advisors...and there are feathered friends in the nest as well."

"Oh bother, that is an unexpected complication. Mr. Kuryakin, do you have any issue with engaging your fellow countrymen in this matter, if need be?"

"No sir."

"You're certain?"

"Yes sir I am."

"Very well then young man, do what must to free Mr. Solo if he's still alive, however..." Waverly paused, making Illya suddenly feel uncomfortable. "If in the event you cannot free him; I am instructing Gabriel to terminate Mr. Solo.* He, as CEA, possesses far too much information vital to U.N.C.L.E. to risk it being extracted from him and though the Soviet Union is a member nation, it would love to get it's hands on...well, you understand. Thrush are not above information sharing when it suits their needs. I'm sorry Illya, but if the situation necessitates it, can you carry out this order?"

He took a deep breath, pausing to maintain his composure before answering. "I will do what I must, sir." It was rare that Waverly ever called him by his first name and that told him the Old Man was indeed at odds about issuing such a directive.

"Very well, then. I do sincerely hope you will not have to act in the capacity of an Archangel."*

It was Illya's turn to be silent, and that pause was misconstrued by Waverly.

"If you can't perform this duty, I understand and will send someone else in who is capable…"

"That will not be necessary sir, I will do what I must," Illya repeated." In the meantime the baby is due anytime now. The Queen mother sends her greetings. Kuryakin out." He deliberately closed the line of communication, feeling confident Waverly would figure out his somewhat cryptic remark that was in reference to the codes being delivered to U.N.C.L.E. in London.

Illya returned the communicator to his robes; his brow now furrowed from the burden that had just been laid upon his shoulders. To have to kill his partner and best friend was an order he'd thought he'd never receive, not from the Old Man.

His mind drifted to the time back in Russia, when he was a young agent for GRU. The Directorate had ordered him to kill fellow GRU agent Nicholaí Alexandrov, not a close friend but someone with which he had gone through training.

His orders were a test of his loyalty and an assignment that he chose not to carry out, as Alexandrov was innocent of what their superiors had accused him of. In the end, the man and his family lost their lives as Kuryakin tried to help them escape the Soviet Union to Finland.**

Illya passed the test as the Directorate thought he had completed his mission, and was unaware their deaths were not by his hand. They were eliminated by agents of the KGB, but Kuryakin made sure those agents did not live to tell the truth and reveal his duplicity.

That was a long time ago, and Illya still felt it was his failure not being able to save Alexandrov, his wife Nada and their infant son. He bit his lower lip, hoping it wo uldn't come to having to fulfill Waverly's order. He couldn't fail this time and was determined to get Napoleon out alive.

_"Chyort vos mi_dammit!"_He cursed to himself as he crawled back through the brush, wondering how in the hell he was going to do just that.

.

* ref to "The Archangel Affair" Note: the Archangel program is an elite assisnation team, whose identites are kept secret, even from each other. Though rarely called into use the Archangels, have desigations as the archangels. Illya's code name is "Gabriel". Napoleon as CEA is aware of the program, but not it's memebers. Part of my AU saga-series

** ref to "The Test" part of the Illya series


	6. Pain, lots of pain

Napoleon was taken to the next white-washed building, stripped of his khakis and footwear; they were replaced with a filthy grey shirt and pants, but no shoes… it was a prisoner's uniform.

He was led into a darkened room and hefted into the air by the guards; draping the chains on his wrist manacles to a hook in the ceiling. When he was let go, a grunt was forced out of him as his body dropped, putting all his weight on his arms.

He dangled there for several minutes, tightening his jaw as he acclimated to feeling of being a strung up side of beef. Blood began to trickle down his arms from his wrists as the shackles cut into his skin. It was then he noticed the walls and floor were spattered with what looked like dried blood; not the most welcoming of sights.

_"Vot my i vstretilisʹ , nakonets, Solo tovarishch_so we meet at last Comrade Solo."_

Napoleon craned his neck, unable to see the man behind him, he spoke, not letting on he understood Russian. "Who are you and why are you doing this to me? I have my rights as an American citizen!" Let me down," he demanded.

The man reached out, spinning the U.N.C.L.E. agent around to face him. He was tall, dark haired with piercing blue eyes, like Illya's. He was handsome in a brutish sort of way, with a strong squared off jaw.

"So you choose to play this childish game with me. I know you understand Russian but I will accommodate you by speaking way there will be no misunderstanding in what I have to say to you."

Napoleon flashed him a bewildered look, still trying to play the innocent.

"Look, please. There's been a terrible mistake here…"

"I am Captain Lyov Zakhrov and you are Napoleon Solo of U.N.C.L.E. and your associate is the traitor Illya Nickovich Kuryakin. You have stolen something very important that belongs to a mutual acquaintance and they want it back...now."

Napoleon huffed as best he could, but the physical position he was in was making breathing a little difficult.

"I really don't know what you're talking about, and I …" he broke out into a coughing fit. "don't know this Napoleon Solo. Why won't anyone believe my name is Anthony Solamente. I'm part of a United Nations team and here as a consultant to help install wells here in your... this country."

Zakhrov said nothing, but responded with a blow to Napoleon's midsection, followed by another and another. After that pounding was done, leaving Solo gasping for air; the Colonel moved his assault to the agent's face, finally stopping when Napoleon's nose and mouth had rivulets of blood running from them with new bruises blossoming on his cheeks.

"No more of this bullshit! Where are the Triad code Mr. Solo?" The dark-haired Russian barked as he wiped the blood from his hands on the prisoner's shirt.

Napoleon moaned but said nothing.

The Colonel continued to beat him, but when it became obvious the agent wasn't going to talk; he stopped. This approach was getting him nowhere. Sadly his orders were to let the American live, as he could have easily beaten him to death, but still he needed to keep him alive to retrieve the codes as well as to be sent back to T.H.R.U.S.H. Central.

Zakhrov reached for a small wooden case on a nearby table and opened it, revealing a syringe and several vials of green liquid. He removed one of the them, and drew some of the liquid through the needle, squirting a bit of the liquid back out from it, thereby removing any air bubbles, lest they kill the prisoner.

He jabbed the needle none too gently into Napoleon's forearm, and watched while the American winced as the drug began to course through his veins.

Solo gave up his ruse." Won't work you know, U.N.C.L.E. agents have been conditioned to stand up against a lot of concoctions, including those of your feathered friends."

"Good, the drug is already working, as you admit to who you are now," the Russian smiled. "It is a truth serum, one of my own making. I doubt you are conditioned against it. Now tell me, where are the Triad codes?"

Napoleon's eyelids began to droop as he felt his will to fight the drug diminish. He'd once told Illya to think about girls to fight off a truth serum, but that wasn't going to work here, not now...come to think of it; it hadn't worked for Illya either.

Zakhrov was right, Napoleon couldn't resist it.

"Now tell me the truth Mr. Solo?" The Colonel softened his voice, making it seem almost hypnotic.

Napoleon mumbled his reply, his voice becoming almost child-like.

"I really dunno.." He then began to laugh, finding that funny."Your drugssss workin' but the truthssss I dunno."

"Where is your partner?"

"Dunno that either...hahhaaaaa."

"Take him outside," The Russian hissed, resigning his momentary failure. He couldn't risk giving the American another does, not so soon, otherwise it could kill him.

He unlocked the manacles, letting Napoleon drop to the floor in a heap. Their training to resist truth serum was far greater than the Russian imagined, yet little did he know, Solo was actually telling the truth. It just wasn't what Zakhrov expected to hear.

The two guards lifted Solo by the arms, pausing while the Colonel grabbed the prisoner's hair, wrenching his head back with a brutal yank.

"We will see how well you do after your stay in the pit," he sneered. "Take him away...and be sure I am notified immediately if Kuryakin is captured."

"Da Comrade Colonel," his men crisply answered with a salute.

Napoleons mind went to thoughts of his partner; they had both been seen in the city, and the Thrushmen knew what he looked like, but in spite of that he was convinced Illya would eventually show up to rescue him. They both had a reputation for doing that, riding in like the cavalry to save each other. He only hoped the cavalry would arrive sooner than later and not get caught in the process.

Zakhrov had it out for Illya, and a determined man was a very dangerous thing..

"Youuu won't catch hiiimm,"Napoleon slurred.

"We will see," Zakhrov whispered, imagining he would eventually lure Kuryakin out into the open, if he had not been yet been captured.

He was convinced his fellow countryman would show up to rescue his American friend, and it was then he would apprehend Kuryakin. Having both agents as prisoners; he would pit them against each other and get the location of the codes, of that he had no doubt.

These men were purported to be great friends; a form of leverage that would work to his advantage. One would give up the truth to save the other.

He was very good at doing that. Once the Colonel had the codes, he would take pleasure in making Illya Kuryakin suffer greatly before he killed him for the traitorous cur that he was, but his torture would last a long time, an exquisitely long and painful one.

It would be interesting to see who caved in first and once he retrieved the codes for his feathered brethren… Solo would be returned to T.H.R.U.S.H. and finally, the real fun would begin.


	7. Things just keep getting worse

The Thrushman Bukhari sat with the General in his office, sipping tea from a fine porcelain china cup and saucer and leisurely reached across to a plate of scones sitting on the desk, selecting one for himself. If anything Akingbade brought some semblance of civilization to this accursed country.

He adjusted his red fez, as he mused about Napoleon Solo being taken prisoner, and not having had to lift a finger himself to capture U.N.C.L.E.'s top agent.

It would be a cherry on top of a sundae if Kuryakin were captured, as then he'd have his codes back. He could take Solo to Central in triumph and have their scientists suck his brain dry of any information vital to U.N.C.L.E. Kuryakin he would leave in the artful hands of the Russian Colonel Zakhrov, to do with him as he pleased...though that pleasure would end in the eventual death of the agent.

Though pleased about that result, Bukhari still cringed at that thought; the Colonel's fury being unleashed on that little Russian mongrel would be quite vicious, no doubt. Kuryakin would get what he deserved, and he would have his revenge against the man, again, without ever having to lift a finger.

This little partnership arrangement he'd made with Akingbade and Zakhrov was turning out to be quite efficacious.

He pushed his fez forward in a sigh of satisfaction as he thought about the fruits of their labors and he bit into the delicious scone.

T.H.R.U.S.H. would have its presence behind the government of Nigeria, and the Russians would be there with military and arms support. Once the dust settled, this would be quite a feather in his fez and might garner him a position on the Thrush Council. Solo and Kuryakin, though an inconvenience, would be a nice bonus to his plans.

He relished that idea with great satisfaction...

.

Napoleon's head was spinning from the drug they'd injected into him, and as they dragged him out into the blinding sun, he forced his eyes shut from the sudden pain of the bright light. When he opened them again, he saw dozens of dark-skinned prisoners gathering round, speaking in a language he unfortunately did not understand but their tone of voice sounded sympathetic to his maltreatment.

He was brought to the middle of the prison yard, and thrown on the ground beside a large piece of canvas. There his shackles were removed and as they lifted the cloth, a deep pit dug into the ground was revealed. The pit, as Zakhrov had called it, was literally that.

The guards rolled the American over, dropping him into the deep hole, covered it with bars made of wood, and flipped the canvas back into place, leaving a small opening for minimal ventilation.

Napoleon moaned as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness, and focusing on the slit of hot sunlight shining through the opening in the canvas. There was a terrible stench present, and when he turned, he realized he had company.

A corpse...one of the other prisoners. His body was beginning to putrefy in the heat and there were maggots everywhere. Napoleon gagged, bringing up nothing but stomach bile. He could feel pain creeping into his senses as the serum seemed to be deadening it for now, but the violence of his retching hadn't helped matters at all.

He moved as far away as he could from the body, holding his hand over his nose and mouth, for all the good it would do to ward off the stench.

Within minutes the air was sweltering. There was nothing there, no water to drink and with his head still spinning, Napoleon pressed his body to the ground, absorbing what coolness it offered.

"Illya, where are you buddy?" He whispered as he closed his eyes.

The effects of the truth serum were finally wearing off, allowing his pain to rear its ugly head, and he began to shake. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, and hoped there were no broken ribs. He could feel the sweat trickling down from his skin and without water he knew he wouldn't last long.

Napoleon wondered if this was it...the end of the Solo luck.

He closed his eyes, drifting off until he heard a voice yelling, with the canvas and bars removed from the pit. Napoleon had no idea how long he'd been in there as they lifted him out.

The guards dragged him over to post set in the middle of the the yard, and there he was bound, forced to stand in in the blazing sun. Not long after his knees began to buckle.

Solo was becoming delirious from lack of water, and becoming overheated and begged for a drink, but the guards would only laugh at him.

Every once in a while one of them would take a bucket of water, tossing it on the American, but still giving him nothing to drink. As the rivulets of water ran down his face, Napoleon tried desperately to catch some of it with his tongue.

Finally he was given a cup of water, and he gulped greedily getting little as they pulled it away from his lips.

"More," he croaked, his throat still parched.

"You take what you gettin'," a guard laughed at him.

Every time one of them passed him, they hit him with a thin wooden rod, the type used as a prod for camels. The welts on his chest and face stung, but still the rest of the pain coursing through his body, dimmed by comparison..

It was late in the afternoon, Napoleon was finally released and returned to Zakhrov. He was sat down, and next to him on a table was a pitcher and a glass of water. His wrists were tied to the arms of the chair.

"So Comrade Solo, are you ready to tell me where the Triad Codes are?" Zakhrov spoke gently this time. "Tell me and I will give you all the water you want, and food...plenty of mouth watering succulent food for you to eat."

"Please, give me some water and I'll tell you the truth," Napoleon rasped.

"Ah, good. You have finally come to your senses, but I must say you have lasted longer than I thought you would. You are a credit to your organization and their training."

He handed Napoleon a glass of water and watch as he gulped it down, emptying the glass.

"More please?"

"Very well," Zakhrov filled the glass from the pitcher and after Napoleon downed his second glass of water, he demanded his answer.

"Now as you promised, I want the truth. Where are the Triad Codes?"

"The truth is...I haven't a clue," Solo tried laughing but it sounded more like a croaking frog. "My partner never told me what he did with them. I'm only aware that he did indeed steal then. That's the God's honest truth, Scouts honor."

"Enough!" The Colonel bellowed. "You think you can still play your games with me?"

"I'm not lying. It's the truth."

Zakhrov bellowed his displeasure as he lashed out, slamming his fist into Solo's chin, knocking him unconscious.

"Uvedite yego v kartser. On ne budet dano ni yedy, ni vody._put him in a cell. He will be given no food or water."

.

Illya watched as they dragged his partner out of the building where he suspected they were holding him, and as they dumped him into a sweatbox of sorts in the ground, he knew he would have to move with greater alacrity if he were to effect a rescue.

What he was able to see of his partners condition did not look good...there was a lot of blood.

He surveyed the circumference of the camp, looking for any weaknesses that would allow him to gain access, but found none.

Hours later, Illya observed as they took Solo from the pit, dragging the man's limp body to a nearby pole and stringing him up by his arms. They let him hang there for house in the hot sun, periodically a guard approached with a wooden bucket of water and threw it in his face, and Illya watched as Napoleon struggled, trying to lick some of it into his thirsty mouth.

One guard finally gave Napoleon a drink from a wooden cup and he watched as it was barely touched to his lips before it was taken away.

Solo was filthy, soaked with perspiration. His face was swollen and bruised and there was dried blood on his wrists and arms.

Napoleon was beaten with switches by other guards...

Kuryakin closed his eyes, as he knew it was time. He could not let Napoleon suffer any further; there was no way into the camp to save him...yes it was time. He grimaced as he assembled his carbine, putting the sight in place to complete the conversion.

Illya raised the rifle, aiming it at his partner, but felt overwhelmed as tears welled up in his eyes. He wiped them away and raised the rifle again, still hesitating.

"No, I will not do this. I will free you somehow." He swore to himself, lowering his weapon and continuing to watch as they took Napoleon down from the pole and dragged him off to another building.

It was then he heard the noise, the sound of patrol dogs and they were approaching quickly.

"Oh shit," he blurted out in English. He rose from his crouched position and ran.

Illya could hear them gaining on him as they caught his scent as he dashed through the underbrush; his heart pounding and breathing coming hard as he tried to put as much distance as he could between them.

It was a losing battle as their barking grew nearer. He couldn't surrender, not to such a frightening sort of death. Anything seemed preferable to being torn apart by dogs.

The heat was positively overwhelming and it sapped his strength so much that he stumbled over a downed tree, sending his carbine flying out of his hands. That was when the dogs found him and in an instant they were on him, two huge slobbering black dogs with long yellowed fangs bared as they dove for his throat.

This was one of his nightmares come to life, as he not only hated dogs; he still carried an inexplicable dread of them that could be traced back to his childhood and subsequently to his training days in the GRU.

He had fought against this phobia all his life and won each battle, but not the war. His victories never made the fear go away. In those instances he always had an advantage...a gun, a knife or a stick but now he was without anything to protect himself.

Illya held his arms up in a defensive position, trying desperately to insulate himself as the beasts bit into his forearms, clamping down with their sharp teeth and breaking the skin as they tore and pulled at him.

He let out a scream, acknowledging not only the pain but his terror of being ripped apart by these mad canines.

"_Stoi, Masha, Stoi Sonya!" T_he handler ordered in Russian, and instantly the dogs ceased their attack. "_Reliz!_ " The dogs backed off, sitting behind their handler like two ebony statues of Anubis.

Illya lay there still curled up in a fetal position, the sleeves of his shirt ripped to shreds and his arms and chest covered in blood. He shook violently, letting out a moan from the shock.

"_Vstavat'!"_ The handler yelled as he kicked the downed agent in the side, telling him to get up.

_"Ya na mogu dvgat' sya." Illya refused as he moaned. " I need help, please. The dogs have injured me too much."_

The soldier leaned forward, grabbing Illya by the shirt collar, intending to pull him upwards.

At that moment Kuryakin sprang his trap, grabbing the Kalashnikov rifle from the man's hands and slamming the butt up under his chin, rolling immediately to the side; he shot the dogs, both in mid-flight as they leapt to the aid of their master.


	8. Out of the frying pan, into the fire

Illya supported his weight on the rifle as he pulled himself to his feet. He tore his shirt into strips for bindings and a gag for the handler and proceeded to relieve the man of his uniform and dressed himself in it.

As usual, the clothes were a bit big, and there was little he could use to staunch the bleeding on his arms as he made his way through the treeline to the compound. There, if it all went as he hoped, he could find his missing partner, and get them out of this living hell. His new plan was to just saunter in, as if he belonged.

Illya approached the barbed-wire gate, pulling the brim of his cap down to cover his face. As luck would have it the entry was being guarded by a single sentry inside a guard house: And after simply nodding to the man, he was granted entry. He was wearing a Soviet uniform and he supposed no one was to dare question such a soldier. No one looked at him, or said anything. So far so good...

He made it halfway across the compound when he heard someone call "Halt," making him freeze in his tracks. Kuryakin turned slowly, saying nothing, trying to act confident as if he were one of them.

"I need you to move this, come here Comrade." The man was speaking Russian, wearing a uniform with the rank of Colonel.

Illya kept his head lowered, continuing to hide his face under the brim of his hat. There was a large crate laying on the ground at the rear of a lorry and the officer pointed to it.

He reluctantly put down his rifle, and reached for the crate, then realizing his hands were covered in blood from the wounds on his arms.

_"Chto za chert_what the hell?"_ The Colonel cursed as he saw it."_ What happened to you?"_

"_Sobaki reshili, chto oni ne khoteli mne segodnya utrom , i vzyal neskolʹko ukusov ot menya , prezhde chem oni uspokoilisʹ ... predpolagayu, chto oni byli prosto nervnyy_ the dogs decided they did not like me this morning, and took a couple of bites out of me before they calmed down...guess they were just jumpy," Illya mumbled, trying to conceal the tremor that had now entered his voice from the pain._

_"Nu pochemu ty ne poshel v lazaret vy durak_well why did you not go to the infirmary you fool?"_

_"Dolg nazyvayetsya tovarishch Polkovnik_duty called Comrade Colonrel."_

_"Well I commend your dedication, but now get your zhopa over there now and have those bites seen to or I will have you locked in the stockade for disobeying an order."_

Illya sighed with relief at not being recognized, saluted the man and headed off to the left.

_"Chto vy, chto glupo_what, are you that stupid?_ The officer yelled after him, pointing to the back of the compound. "_ Bozhe moi_ my god man, it is that way dammit! Why the hell they keep sending me morons like you I will never understand!"_

_"Da,·eer, ya prosto chuvstvuyulegkoe golovokruzhenie , poteryal chuvstvo napravleniya. Blagodaryu vas , ·eer, eto ne sluchit·sya snova_yes sir, I am just feeling a little dizzy, lost my sense of direction. Thank you sir, it will not happen again."_ Illya forced himself not to stagger as he turned to where he had been ordered.

Looking around once he was out of view; he tried to locate the building where Napoleon had been taken, but his vision was becoming fuzzy; the blood loss and shock were finally catching up with him as he staggered and fell to the ground, passing out.

When Illyas eyes opened, the glare of the sun blinded him for a moment, and he felt the hot metallic end of a rifle muzzle pushing against his cheekbone.

_"Welcome Mr. Kuryakin, I am Colonel Lyov Zakhrov. You may not know my name, but we are going to become very well acquainted very soon,"_ the familiar voice spoke to him in Russian. It was the officer who'd sent him to the infirmary. _"It took me a few minutes before I recognized you. I knew you would come to rescue Solo, but your condition is a surprise."_

Illya mumbled," _I would like to register a complaint about your facilities and animal contro, very sub-standard. I think I will take my business elsewhere."_

Zakhrov pulled him up by his shirt collar, "I heard about you Kuryakin, a smart ass mouth that you can't seem to keep closed," he said clamping his hand around the agent's throat and squeezing it until Illya's face began to turn blue from lack of oxygen. He was suddenly released, leaving him gagging and gasping for breath with a rasping cough, finally being able to get some air into his lungs.

Illya's hands were cuffed behind his back with no deference to the wounds on his arms and hands. He was thrown into the rear of a jeep, and taken across the compound .

He was barely conscious when he felt himself dragged from the vehicle into a building, and down a dimly lit hallway. He swayed, hardly able to stand, as they held him in front of a steel door. When it was opened, he was shoved unceremoniously into a room, where he collapsed to the floor with a thud. Illya heard the lock click behind him, yet felt a pair of strong arms effortlessly raised his torso, cradling his body.

Illya looked up into a pair of dark hazel eyes and seeing who they belonged to, he tried to smile.

"Napoleon, I am here to rescue you," he whispered.

"I'm sure you are_ tovarisch_, and you're doing a fine job of it." his partner coughed as he tried to joke," Either way; it's good to see you."

Solo helped the weakened man to a bunk. Seeing the blood on his partners arms; he gingerly rolled up the sleeves, hissing as he instantly recognized the painful wounds to be bite marks.

"I thought you didn't like playing with dogs." Napoleon tore off a piece of his own shirt; binding the wounds as best he could.

"These are probably going to become infected chum," he whispered.

"I know, I have been bitten before."

"Really? I don't recall that. Usually when you see a dog, you hightail it up a tree. You have had a rabies shot right?"

"Yes, and to answer your question about being bitten...it was back in my training days at GRU. They would put us in a pen and set dogs upon us to learn how to defend ourselves...or die," Illya hesitated. "I was nearly killed."

"So that's why you're afraid of dogs." Napoleon said, amazed that his partner had admitted the truth.

"Nyet, I became afraid of dogs when I was but a child...during the war when I was alone on the streets of Kyiv there were packs of hungry dogs chasing after me and the other children. We were hunted, but then I became the hunter, though I was still afraid of them. Roasted dog meat is quite tasty you know."

Solo watched Illya's eyes roll back as he passed out. He quickly checked the Russians pulse...it was a little fast. He inspected him for any other injuries and found a sizeable bruise developing along his side, thinking his friend might have some broken ribs as well.

The blood loss from the bites were most likely the reasons he passed out, at least that's what Napoleon hoped. A fever hadn't developed yet, as the wounds didn't look infected, and seemed very recent, but only time would tell. Given the extreme heat, most likely that he was dehydrated as well, Illya's condition could go from bad to worse in the snap of a finger.

Napoleon sat back down on his own bunk. He was feeling pretty rotten himself, but he still felt strong enough to take whatever they threw at him...Illya he wasn't so sure. Zakhrov would unleash his brutality on both of them, but Kuryakin would most likely get the worst of it.

He and Illya needed to have their wits about them to survive this place, and Solo prayed they would.

The American closed his weary, eyes, nodding off until the door to the cell opened and three guards appeared. They pushed Napoleon away as he rose, and dragged Illya's limp body from the cell.

"No, take me!" Napoleon cried out. "Not him! Me!"

His cries fell on deaf ears as the door was closed behind them with a resounding slam.

Solo dropped to the bunk, cringing and praying Illya wasn't being brought out to be beheaded.


	9. And you thought it couldn't get worse

Illya woke up as he was being dragged down a dimly lit corridor, and though he valiantly pulled at his captors arms to free himself, he was too weak to succeed. He was brought into another room, no doubt for interrogation, and handcuffed against a stripped down skeletal mattress spring that was leaning against a wall.

He knew what that meant and mentally prepared himself for what was to come.

The guard sliced Illya's shirt away from him, leaving his sweat covered torso exposed and the simple wrappings Napoleon had put on the Russian's bloody arms came off as well.

From his struggles, the wounds on his arms had begun to bleed again...

There he stayed for what seemed like an eternity...a typical interrogation technique; keep the subject waiting; let the anticipation and fear of the unknown build the anxiety.

Yet somehow the only thing bothering Illya Kuryakin more at the moment, was the fact that his nose was itching and he couldn't scratch it. It was most annoying.

The pain emanating from his arms and ribs had settled in to a nagging dullness, one that he had become accustomed to now. He'd suffered worse and this discomfort did not rank high on his list. What was to come though, most certainly would.

The door finally opened, and in swaggered Colonel Zakhrov, alone. There was no need for guards as his subject was secured.

A moment later two men did appear, obviously prisoners, and Illya assumed they were 'functionaries; each of them, carrying buckets of water as well as a car battery with jumper cables.

"Tak chto ya, nakonets, dobratʹsya do polozhil ruki na vas, Kuryakin . Vy predatelʹskoy sobaki_So I finally get to put my hands on you, Kuryakin. You traitorous dog."

Illya glared at him with disdain, saying nothing.

Without warning the Colonel slammed his fist into Illya's stomach, receiving only a grunt as his response, that and a few gasps as the U.N.C.L.E. agent tried to catch his breath.

"So let us dispense with the pleasantries, why not just tell me where the Triad codes are for our T.H.R.U.S.H. friends and then I can send Mr. Solo on his way. Soviet Union has no quarrel with him.

"Right to his death, I am sure." Illya snickered. "I can honestly tell you that I do not know where the codes are at this moment in time. I have no clue."

"Fine, if that is the way you wish to play the game Comrade..."

Zakarov gestured to one of his men, and a bucket of water was dumped over Illya's head.

To Kuryakin, for a brief moment, it felt quite refreshing. He tried to swallow some of it was the water trickled down his face, wetting his parched lips.

"What no soap?" He quipped. "Again I must voice my dissatisfaction with your establishment."

"I have heard that about you, always with the smart remarks. We will see if you are as bold in a few minutes." Zakhrov donned a rubber glove, and grabbed the jumper cables, clamping one to the bed frame.

He hesitated, watching Illya's eyes follow him and finally attached the other clip to the battery post; smiling as his fellow Russian writhed from the current now coursing through his body.

Kuryakin's muscles went into spastic contraction, his teeth gritted uncontrollably, but still he made no sound.

The connection was broken, and Illya gasped for air as his muscles twitched.

"Should -have- brought a bigger battery," he struggled to get out the words.

Zakhrov repeated the procedure again and again until Illya, unable to stand it any longer, passed out.

"Bring in the physician," the Russian officer ordered.

"You think you can outlast me enh?" Zakhrov said, though he knew the prisoner couldn't hear him.

The good doctor walked in; his demeanor one of trepidation, not knowing what he would face.

"Dr. Akinjide, revive the prisoner." The Russian's voice was cold as ice. To him, Illya Kuryakin wasn't a man, he was merely a thing, a traitor to extract information from, and nothing more.

"Yes Colonel." He took a small paper capsule from his medical bag, holding it under Illya's nose and snapping it. Ammonium carbonate, better known as smelling salts; once the fumes were inhaled through the nose, the mucous membrane become irritated, causing the lungs to fill with air while there is rapid breathing, reviving the unconscious person.

Illya coughed several times, until his eyes opened, permitting the doctor to see the pain within them. Without Zakhrov's notice, Akinjide leaned forward, checking Illya's pupils, and at the same time secretly injected him with morphine. That at least might help the unfortunate man through the torture session, if the Colonel didn't end up killing him.

The doctor was forced to watch as the same abuse was repeated over and over on the slight blond; each time he was ordered to revive the man.

Zakhrov took his knife from its sheath hanging from his belt. As Illya's head drifted forward, and the Colonel grabbed it, taking it by a fistful of hair and lifting it to look into Kuryakins eyes.

Illya stared back at him cross-eyed until the knife came closer, and the Colonel jabbed it into his cheek. At this point the pain receptors in his body were on fire, and at this moment one more attempt at torturing him, really made no difference.

The agents breathing was ragged, and whatever strength he had left was diminishing as he tried to resist whatever Zakhrov dished out. Illya hissed a defiant retort back at the Colonel.

"Vy ne vyigrayete . Vashi dobryye nikogda ne delayet v kontse_ you will not win. Your kind never does in the end. It is you who are the traitor to our homeland. You bring shame to it…" Illya's head bobbled, and he passed out again.

.

"I think he cannot take much more, " Akinjide warned as he listened to Illya's heart with a stethoscope. Though it was was strong, and surprisingly regular, the doctor lied. This man apparently had the constitution of an ox...

Zakhrov cursed in frustration. After having no success at breaking Kuryakin, he was returned to the cell with his partner. The process with Solo would start again in the morning, and the Colonel was sure the condition of Kuryakin would help influence the sentimental American into revealing the location of the codes.

A pair of guards entered the room, removing the limp body of their fellow Russian and taking him back to his cell.

.

An hour later, Napoleon looked up as the cell door again opened and the doctor he'd met on the lorry entered, his black medical bag in hand.

"Hello, remember me Mr. Solo?"

"Dr. Akinjide, good to see you again. Can you help my friend here? He's in pretty bad shape."

"As are you, but yes, I am here to look in on your companion. I am supposed to report back on his condition.

Illya lay huddled on the bunk, sweating profusely, yet shivering at the same time. The morphine was wearing off, and a fever had set in as the dog bites on his arms had quickly become infected. He was in shock and not doing well.

"This is not good," the doctor said, examining the wounds. "I do not have much in the way of antibiotics as the General has made me use most of my supply to treat him and his lackeys. I have only a few doses left, but will give them to your friend in hopes they will help until we can get you both out of here."

"We?" Napoleon whispered.

"Yes, you see I am with MI6, though I am a real physician as well. Do you know where these Triad codes are, the ones they are speaking about?"

Napoleon became suspicious, thinking the man was a plant of sorts. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious, do not tell me if you do know. I have a plan to get you out of here, if you want to risk it, I can help you escape before you break under Zakhrov's questioning. Are these codes that important that they are worth your life and that of this man?"

"Yes they are. His name is Illya, Illya Kuryakin. He's my partner and my best friend. The truth is, I really don't know where the codes are," Napoleon smiled, sensing the doctor might be legitimate.

"What about you Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya shook his head no, not willing to reveal the truth. He'd said nothing to Napoleon about what he'd done at the British embassy, but now wondered if this doctor was indeed the inside man the Ambassador had spoken about.

"I am truuuthful whennn I say I dooo not know where they are." His speech was slurred and slow.

"Have yooou been to the Britisssh Am-bass-ador's office….the em-bas-sy here in Warri?"

"I most certainly have." The doctor proceeded to describe the room in detail as well as the location of the wall safe, where the Ambassador had secured Illya's package to include with their courier delivery to England. Akinjide also gave a very precise description of the headquarters of MI6, right down to the ridiculous porcelain bull dog with the Union Jack on its back that "M" kept on his desk, there in his office. It apparently was something passed on to each director, and had been given to the agency by Churchill, it had become sort of a good luck charm, as it were.

Kuryakin trembled, as he nodded to his partner. He'd been to the British Intelligence building while stationed at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in London. That knowledge let him decide Akinjide was the real deal.

"So what's this plan?"Napoleon asked.

"I will at one point inject you both with a drug that will simulate death. The bodies of those who have died are taken by lorry to a pit not far from here and simply dumped, leaving them to the carrion, and other wildlife.

"Annnnd, howww are weee to be reee-vived?" Illya barely managed to get out the words.

"The drug's effects last less than an hour; if they take longer than that to load you onto the truck, you might come to and be discovered."

"That's a chance I think we're willing to take. Right tovarisch?"

Illya again nodded in agreement, but coughed violently, curling up into a fetal position as he held his side where his ribs were broken.

"What about you Doctor? How will you get out?" Solo asked.

"My job was to get in, and I will remain here to gather information for my government as well as the United Nations. Eventually Akinbade will release me, as we have it planned for a relative of his to have a medical emergency; the General, of course, will send me to help, and it is then I will effect my escape."

Still, Napoleon didn't like the idea of the doctor being left behind, but he was a fellow agent and had an assignment to complete; it was all part of the game, whether he liked it or not.

He reached out his hand, offering it to the man. "Thanks for your help. Good luck to you then. Maybe we can catch up with each other after this is all over and have a drink or two and exchange war stories."

The doctor shook his hand, "I will look forward to that, and God speed to the two of you as well. Always glad to be of service and help fellow agents." He looked over at Illya, finding him asleep and that was the best thing for the Russian at the moment.

"If our plan succeeds Mr. Solo, you must go to this address. There you will meet a man named Saleem. He is one of us and you must say these words to him. "Is there a doctor in the house? Rain must be on the way, as my big toe hurts." He had Solo repeat the phrases back to him.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, along with a smile at the pass code, and he wondered, thinking back on the Commands passwords, why they always had to do with the weather? He suddenly found it amusing seemed to be a recurring theme in the spy world...

The cell door creaked open, with guards entering to take Napoleon and the doctor to Zakhrov's torture chamber. The Colonel had apparently upped his timetable, not willing to wait until morning.

.

Napoleon was dragged into the room and made to stand in the middle of Zakhrov's chamber of horrors, his hands bound behind his back. Suffering from his own injuries, he swayed, trying to keep himself erect.

"Let us get down to brass tacks as you American say, . If you do not tell me where the codes are, then I will have no recourse but to continue using my skills on your partner. You know he will die if I do so."

"I know that, so does he. Dying is part of our job. Eventually it happens." Napoleon sneered at him.

"Well until I work on your partner, no need ignoring you as well."

Zakhrov again pulled his knife from its sheath, still stained with the blood of Kuryakin. He ran the razor-sharp blade down along the Americans bicep, slicing through his shirt to the skin, creating a blossom of blood in the cloth.

Napoleon broke into a sweat, fighting the pain; not wanting to give the Colonel any satisfaction, but finally passing out, though not really, as that was what he wanted the man to think.

"Go to Kuryakin, make sure he is still alive and have him brought here, " Zakhrov ordered the doctor. "Though if he's dead... he's dead. One less traitor for KGB to hunt down, " he chuckled. His plan was to torture Illya in front of Napoleon, and surely that would break the American. He would want to save his friend in spite of his declarations about dying.

Looking to Solo, he instructed the doctor to check him before leaving to go to the partner.

Akinjide did as he was told and leaned forward, shining a small penlight into Napoleon's eyes, and at the same time, he secretly injected Solo's arm it with a clear liquid.

Napoleon would play his part for as long as the drug allowed him to, knowing that it was the one which would soon simulate death.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent let his eyes flutter open, pretending he was barely conscious.

"Now off with you Doctor, check on my traitor and be quick about it," the Colonel snarled, snapping his fingers.

"Now the real suffering begins Mr. Solo…"


	10. On the move

**Author's note:** Thanks for your patience and for all your good vibes, hugs and prayers. Am home from the hospital and recuperating, but will have a long road to travel. The final chapter 11 will be posted next week. Please excuse any spelling errors today, though I think I caught them all...you can understand me being a bit distracted.

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Dr. Akinjide returned moments later, looking most distressed, and making his report to the Colonel.

"Well, what about Kuryakin?"

"I am sorry to report that he has indeed passed. There was nothing I could do to revive him." He'd given Illya his injection, knowing by the time he reported to Zakhrov, Kuryakin would appear to be deceased.

The doctor cringed as the Colonel became enraged... angered that he was deprived of abusing his traitorous countryman any further.

"You bastard, " Napoleon swore, "Illya never did any harm to you or the Soviet Union. He was an honorable man and he loved his country…" Napoleon began to cough again.

He felt himself weakening and in response to his outburst Zakhrov grabbed him by the throat, squeezing it until the American struggled to breath. The Russian released his grip, but Napoleon continued to gasp, fighting to get air into his lungs. His eyes widened as his lips turned blue and a moment later his head dropped to the side.

"Revive him Akinjide!"

The doctor went about his routine, opening Napoleon's eyelids, checking the pupillary response and finally felt his throat for a pulse.

"I am afraid this prisoner has also expired."

Zakhrov knew the General and Thrushmen would not be happy, but in the long run he didn't care. His country's business was about turning the new regime into a puppet government, and eventually making Nigeria a Soviet satellite.

It would be the first major foothold on the African continent, and an expansion of the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics; that was all that really mattered. His interrogation of the U.N.C.L.E. agents, especially Kuryakin, was just a momentary amusement, and meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Zakhrov stormed from the room still feeling robbed of his victory. His compatriots would now have to be dealt with. The General's feeble warning to "not damage' his goods, would be at best, an annoyance.

Guards came in, carrying Solo's body out, wrapped in a blanket to a waiting lorry just as the doctor had anticipated. They dropped him to the ground as they first threw the body of his Russian friend on top of the other dead who'd been tossed in the back of the truck moments before. Once the Americans body joined other dead, Akinbades men started the truck, driving slowly through the barbed-wire gate as it was opened for them.

They arrived at the pit a short while later; it was not hard to find; one just had to look at the dozens of vultures circling in the sky.

The larger predators and other four-legged scavengers were nowhere to be seen as it was the hottest part of the day, and they'd be resting in the shade somewhere.

The soldiers pulled the dozen or so recently deceased bodies from the back of the truck, with Solo and Kuryakin being thrown in the pit last, landing side by side.

The engine roared as the soldiers took off, returning to the prison camp.

The heat of the sun continued bake down on the countless bodies abandoned to the elements and wildlife.

Napoleon's eyes popped open with a start, but the light forced him to squint and he raised his hand to shield himself. He shook off the effects of the drug, blinking several times before his vision cleared.

"Illya?" He called out, turning slowly to see the crumpled body of his partner in close proximity to one a rather large and hideous vulture there to find a meal, with another swooping down from the sky to join it.

Solo rolled over, trying to ignore the fact that he was laying on top of several corpses.

"Get out of here you ugly things, go peck on someone else!" He waved his hands like a wildman until the vultures flew off, alighting on a body farther away.

Napoleon grabbed his partner, hoisting up Illyas torso into his arms and slapped him on the face a few times. "Illya buddy, time to wake up. We don't want anyone finding us here, otherwise this may become our permanent residence...ILLYA!"

"Mmmm, yes. I am here," Kuraykin muttered. He tried sitting up with a groan. Surveying their surrounding, he spoke, surprise evident in his voice. "So the plan actually worked?"

"You didn't think it would?"

"Does night follow day?"

Napoleon snickered. "You'll never change will you?"

"You are expecting me to?" Illya gingerly made his way to his hands and knees, before he was able to stand, though he was unsteady on his feet. He looked around at the hundreds of lost souls, tossed aside like yesterdays trash, suddenly giving him a flashback to Bykivnia forest. One of the bodies nearest to him was that of the guard he hand knocked unconscious when he first stole his way into the camp, the mans punishment for his failure, no doubt.

No doubt, death was the punishment for having allowed Illya to pass through the gate unchallenged...

He gasped at the countless other corpses that surrounded them, reminding him of when, as a child, he stumbled upon an open pit where the Nazis had executed hundreds of people, leaving them there to rot...one of those naked bodies covered in lime he'd recognized as belonging to his beloved cousin Anastasiya.*

"Come Napoleon, we must to get away from here," his voice strained.

"I cannot bear to look at them…the brutality. I have seen too much of this in my life."

Solo watched, unaccustomed to seeing such deep emotions rising up in his parter. Illya stood there for a moment, his eyes welling up and he wiped them with the back of his hand. "It is the fever, " he muttered, covering his momentary lapse at letting his guard down.

Napoleon knew his partner was lying, and wondered what had triggered his emotional response. It was more than empathy and compassion. This had struck something deep within the Russian's soul. No point in asking, as Illya never told him the truth when it came to his past. Regardless, they both were in bad shape and he was right, they had to get away from this inhumane sight.

The two agents helped each other out of the gruesome graveyard, and leaning on each other, they made their way to where Illya estimated he'd hidden the motorbike and supplies.

After a little searching, it was finally located, and they took a few minutes to drink from canteen stowed in the supply pack before getting on the bike and heading back to Warri.

Napoleon drove the bike as Illya was still too weak. As the Russian wrapped his arms around his partner's waist, Solo felt Illya's head lying against his shoulder. Who knew what thoughts were running through the man's head at the moment...

They returned to Warri, heading to the address given by the doctor. They parked the motorbike in front of what appeared to be a residence, and Napoleon knocked on the door.

It was answered by an Arabic man wearing a robe and knit cap.

"Yes, what do you want?" He said in English.

Solo gave him the passwords.

Saleem's eyes widened, darting side to side as he checked the street.

"Come, come in quickly."

Napoleon introduced he and Illya and told the man of the situation with the doctor.

"I am concerned for my compatriot. The plan to get him released by the General is not a fool-proof one."

He looked them over, seeing their poor condition. "Please, I am remiss. It is obvious you both have suffered at the hands of that Russian animal Zakhrov….no offence," he said to Illya.

"None taken."

Saleem showed them to a room where they could clean up themselves, and rest and most importantly brought them water to drink, as they were both dehydrated.

"I will leave you momentarily as I need to go to a chemist to get some antibiotics for your friend," he told Napoleon. "He has an infection that must be treated. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe, help yourselves."

Hours passed before they were feeling better and both were ready to eat. Though neither of them felt sated when it came to drinking enough water. It would take some time to recuperate and given their injuries, it would most likely take longer than average. That didn't matter, for as soon as they felt strong enough, they had a task to complete.

Illya drifted in and out of sleep, and he finally woke the afternoon of the second day after their escape, feeling better. The antibiotics were working their magic.

"Hey chum, hungry?" Napoleon smiled, changing the damp cloth on Illyas forehead.

"Like I could eat a camel."

"Be careful what you wish for in this part of the world. Would some chicken broth do in the mean time?"

"Da." Illya's eyes were barely open.

"Here, eat this." Solo offered a spoonful of the hot soup to him. And watched as his partner ate like a little bird.

"When can we go home?" Illya whispered.

"That depends...Dr. Akinjide helped us at great risk, and I think we should return the favor. He told me the General would release him, as there was a plan in place for a family member needing medical treatment...but for some reason, I don't think that might happen. Besides there's too many innocents in that camp that need to be rescued as well. What do you say partner mine? Shall we get into some mischief and take that place down?"

Illya hiked himself up in the bed; his eye brightening at the prospect of a little revenge.

"I am in."

Napoleon handed him a second bowl of soup, and this time Illya fed himself, knowing he'd need the strength to do what needed to be done...

After recuperating for another day, the agents set out again for the prison camp, accompanied by Saleem. Between Illya's stash of C-4 and the supplies brought by the MI6 operative, they had enough to blow the camp to kingdom come.

Saleem supplied them with Walther PPK pistols and once armed, they took off back to the prison camp; the British agent following on his own motorbike.

.

* ref to "Beginnings"


	11. a thrush and his fez

It was just past sunset as Napoleon, Illya and the British agent Saleem arrived at the camp. All was quiet, and they remained hidden, observing from their vantage point, this time farther away than Illya had been when he was set upon by the dogs.

It was surprisingly quiet, with only the periodic sound of a bird...or was it a monkey coming from the trees in the distance. Even the insects seemed to have become silent.

That did not bode well to the agents, thinking mother nature was somehow betraying their presence.

They shook off the feeling, as they had a job to do...

Watching the guards as they passed, timing their movements; they waited to see when they would change shifts or again if there were any blind spots.

There were several opportunities that would allow them to approach unseen to plant their explosives at several key points along the fence posts where the explosions would bring them down as well as the main guard tower.

The detonations would create openings for the prisoners to escape, and there was no doubt they would immediately take advantage of the situation, and that would add to the chaos. That multi-purposed distraction was exactly what they Napoleon and Illya needed.

The agents, in the confusion, would make their way into the camp, find the doctor and take care of their other business, and that was eliminating General Akinbade and the Russian Colonel.

Illya wanted Zakhrov for himself, though it was no surprise to the American. Once Kuryakin made up his mind, it would be impossible to convince him otherwise. The General would be left to Napoleon while Saleem would get Dr. Akinjide out, whether he liked it or not.

The majority of the housing for the prisoners were simply canvas tents, with only a few buildings housing the General and his staff, Zakhrov's torture chambers and barracks for the guards.

The explosions would be well underway in destroying the compound, prisoners would escape...there would no need for the doctor to remain there. He could still report on the conditions, after the fact. What he had to say might help direct the U.N. deal with any other attempts at the fledgling Nigerian government at creating more of these evil camps, as well as put the Soviets on notice as to non-interference.

.

Napoleon and Illya split up, making their way in the darkness to the designated targets while, avoiding the spotlights and the patrols.

Illya froze for a moment, hearing guard dogs barking in the distance, but eased as he heard the sound begin to fade.

He set plenty of C-4 on the supports for the main guard tower, and along several of the metal fence posts. The explosions would be strong enough to clear a path, although the concertina wire at the top of the fence might be problematic.

Kuryakin checked his watch, setting the timers and knowing his partner was hopefully doing the same. A few seconds off in the detonations was immaterial, just as long as they went off in sequence.

He continued to crawl in the dirt on his belly, ignoring the pain that still jabbed at him from his ribs as he headed to the tower; ducking his head as a spotlight cut through the darkness above his head.

Illya packed the grey blocks of C-4 on two of the four large wooden posts that supported the tower. The timer on these would go off first, followed by the fencing.

In all there would be six explosions. He took a deep breath, as he shimmied to a safe position and waited there for the bombs to do their thing.

Seconds later there was a massive explosion, toppling the tower. The remnants of which burst into flames. The guards within were sent toppling below, screaming as their bodies were engulfed in flames.

Cascading as planned, the explosives along the fence line went off...BOOM-BOOM- BOOM! Illya counted them...four? A few seconds later he smiled as the fifth one exploded.

As hoped for, the prisoners charged the openings in the fencing, ignoring the gunshots of the guards as they fired into the throngs. Some fell to their deaths, but many more made it safely past the fence, disappearing into the fire-lit night to their freedom.

The agents were on their feet in an instant, charging into the crowds and making a beeline for the white washed buildings.

Napoleon returned to the office he'd first been brought to, finding Akinbade rifling through his desk, tossing papers in a metal trash can where he was burning it all.

"Hiding the evidence General?" Solo stood in the doorway, his gun pointed at the man.

Akinbade made a move for the pistol lying beside him on the top of the desk.

"Unh uh…" Solo smiled, waving the barrel of his gun. "On second thought, go ahead and try. It would really make my day."

The General did just that, though he never made it, as he fell forward hitting the desk before his dead body dropped to the floor. Napoleon stood there, smoke drifting from the barrel of his Walther… He didn't like killing a man, but with this one was willing to make an exception. Sighing; he knew, no matter how many of these bastards were eliminated, there'd always would be another one to step up to the plate.

That was why he and the Command were here, to stop lunatics like this one, and Napoleon planned to just keep doing that, no matter what it took.

Saleem stepped up behind him; his presence making the American spin, instinctively pointing his gun at the man.

"Whoa!" He called out, "It's me!" Beside him stood the doctor.

"Good to see you alive and well Mr. Solo, though I am a bit distressed by your entrance," Dr. Akinjide smiled. "My work is not done here but I must admit, I am pleased to see this place going up in flames."

The smell of smoke filled the air while the three men set more charges around the building. They met no resistance, and as they were about to detonate the doctor called for a moment.

"Please wait, there is something I need here."

He gathered up the unburned remnants of the Generals private files, putting them in a folder and tucking them under his arm.

"This is what I need to document the atrocities committed by this government and its lackeys."

"Fine Doc, but we need to get out of here and find Illya," Napoleon warned, pointing at his watch. "The timers are set, so lets go...post haste."

Saleem and Napoleon moved with caution as they stepped out of the building, the doctor bringing up the rear, now armed with Akinbade's pistol.

The compound was still in pandemonium, though the guards were beginning to abandon their posts. Some of the prisoners had cornered the men and were using anything they could to attack the men, beating them to death.

The flames had leaped to the tents now, playing leapfrog as they jumped along each row of canvas shelters.

The agents and the doctor headed toward building three; Napoleon concerned for his partner taking on the Colonel. Illya was still weak from his torture sessions, but was grimly determined to deal with his countryman.

.

Kuryakin entered Zakhrov's inner sanctum, seeing several prisoners locked in their cells. After a few minutes of searching for the keys, he found them in a desk drawer. The guards had abandoned their posts, though he found that surprising. In his experience, Soviet soldiers rarely did that, as it was an instant death sentence to do so. Still here, in the ensuing disorder, who was there to know they'd shirked their duty.

He helped the men to their feet, telling them as best he could to flee, as he was lacking the words in Yoruba.

"So you have returned from the dead," the chilling voice of the Colonel spoke from the door of the cell, standing behind Kuryakin.

"Yes I have been known to do that, " Illya quipped.

Noting his countryman was wearing clean clothes, and looking a little refreshed, Zakhrov made a presumtive leap in logic as to who was at the bottom of Kuryakin's survival.

"I think it is safe to assume the good doctor was responsible for your ressurection. I will make sure he pays for his betrayal...as will you. Say your prayers, if you do that anachronistic thing Kuryakin…"

He raised his gun, aiming it at Illya, but just at that moment, one of the other prisoners in the cell suddenly coughed loudly gasping for air, distracting the Colonel for the split second that Illya needed.

Diving forward with teeth gritted in determination and, aiming at the man's midsection, Illya slammed into him; the two of them flying out into the corridor and crashing against the wall.

They grappled for control of Zakhrovs handgun, and though the man was bigger than Illya, he was unprepared for how strong the U.N.C.L.E. agent was.

Kuryakin had a grip on the man's wrist with both his hands, and twisting it, using the weight of his body, he pulled Zakhrov's hand at a painful angle.

The Colonel, sensing he was losing, began punching Illya in the kidney with his other hand, and one of the blows manage to hit the injured ribs.

Illya released his grip, crumpling to the floor in a agonized scream, gasping for breath.

"You lose, dog," Zakhrov snarled, standing erect and taking aim at Illya's head with his Tokarev.

"Proshchaniye Illya Nickovich_farewell Illya Nickovich," he laughed.

"I will see you in hell," Illya moaned, closing his eyes when he heard the hammer cock on Zakhrov's gun.

His body jerked as the shot was fired...but suddenly realized he felt nothing, other than the gnawing pain in his ribs. Illya opened his eyes to see the Colonel's body sliding down the wall, leaving a bloody smear on the white washed wall.

Behind him stood Napoleon Solo…

"Come on buddy, let's blow this joint," the American smiled, offering his hand to his partner, and helping him up from the floor.

The final charges were planted, and the four men headed out into the burning compound, now mostly empty of the living. There were a few bodies scattered about... guards and a few unfortunate prisoners. It was a small price to pay to free the many. The bodies of the T.H.R.U.S.H. minions were among them, and a gust of wind blew blew up a whirwind of dust, continuing to feed the flames.

"By the way chum," Napoleon asked as he and his partner walked slowly together,"You never did tell me where you hid the codes?"

"I did not hide them,"Illya barely broke a smile as he explained what he'd done with them.

"Hmm, clever Russian," Napoleon grabbed hold of the man's shoulder, managing a congratulatory squeeze as he steadied him.

A red fez suddenly blew in front of them on the ground and Napoleon picked it up, placing it on his head, modeling it with a smile as he pulled a pair of eyeglasses from his pocket, having forgotten they'd been tucked there in case he'd needed a disguise.

"Nice souvenir," Illya commented.

"Yes, it is, these are hard to come by as we both know, because…"

The blurted out in unison, "A Thrush and his fez are seldom parted." For some reason, that sent them into a bout of uncontrolled laughter.

"Feels good to laugh chum."

"Yes it does," Illya agreed."We did good today, though it is just a small part of the greater picture."

"One piece of the puzzle at a time, if that's what it takes. Shall we head home partner mine?" Napoleon grinned.

"The word 'home' never sounded so good my friend," Illya said as the four men headed to where the two motor bikes remained hidden in the bush.

Illya's hand blocked his partner from slipping onto the drivers seat. "I drive this time. I do not want you getting us lost, and easy where you grab...my ribs, remember?"

Solo smiled, carefully wrapping his arms around his friends waist. The American opened his mouth to give a retort, but stopped himself. Enough banter for now... He obediently climbed on the back of the bike behind Illya.

"Home James," Napoleon smiled, waving his arm as if he were leading a wagon train.

"With pleasure, my friend."

Saleem, with the doctor on his motorbike traveled behind them, following the U.N.C.L.E. agent off into the darkness; the night sky still red from the burning camp.

There was one last explosion in the distance behind them as building number three was finally blown to smithereens.

The agents were unaware they were being watched though, as a lone bloodied figure had crawled from the structure just before it went up in a blaze of glory.

"I will have my vengeance," Colonel Zakhrov quietly swore before he collapsed in the middle of the compound...


End file.
